Cataclysmic
by krisnreine
Summary: 5.23 promo fic. Spoilers abound!


Cataclysmic.

That's what they'll call it, this slamming together of desire to desire. His cool detachment somehow melting her frigid smile, sparks and flames igniting despite their best efforts. The second their lips meet it became an instant flare of want and need. They tangle in each other, fingers and hands, madly trying to rid each other of the boundaries between skin. They work at cross-purposes, as always, she tackling his jeans while he fumbles to free her breasts.

They skitter sideways into the couch and he's made more headway than she has. Her shirt is twisted wantonly in her arms and her nails are dragging at any material they can find purchase in. It's a sweet sting as she yanks him backwards and they tip into the desk, the play of her tongue against his pulse making him even more uncoordinated. It's all he can do to keep upright before they're off again, making a mad, crooked path to the bedroom.

She stops their motion in the doorway, backtracking until her spine is pressed to the door and he follows, caught in the gravitational pull of wanting her. It was constant, the way they orbited each other, knowing that even the slightest shift would send them careening into this moment. Fingers tangled in his hair, she gasps when he grinds against her, wondering blankly why they didn't do this...any time before now.

One more spin of their awkward dance and he's walking her backward into his bedroom. She is mildly annoyed by his slow pace, not caring for the moment about his pain or infirmity. His hand slipping past the waistband of her pants gives her carte blanche to be impatient. He teases her constantly, and this is but another way he can find to torture her into sweet oblivion.

"Wait, wait, wait." Cuddy rasps, backing out of House's grabby hands. Two can play at this game - two have been for a very long time.

"Nooo," He whines - actually whines - at the lack of contact and Cuddy's grin turns saucy. She is not very coordinated as she clambers onto his bed, dragging her shoes off in the process. When she kneels before him he is beaming like a schoolboy, all bounding impatience and glee. She dips her head and looks up at him through the fringe of her bangs before reaching behind her for the clasp of her bra. Her back arches and she swears House's eyes roll back in his head.

"For the love of God," He murmurs, hoping desperately that this is not his subconscious paying him back for all those dirty fantasies. At the scrape of lace against his cheek, he snaps back to reality and this time he groans. A full, guttural, deeply felt thanks to every deity known to man. His fingers ache and twitch in time with Cuddy's lips as she watches him watching her. The way he looks at her, (has always looked at her) in reverence, fascination and desire, makes her feel powerful. As a Dean, a woman running an entire hospital, she is no stranger to the heady feeling of authority and influence. But rarely - face it, never - does she feel treasured. House's slack-jawed, wide-eyed grin have returned to her a shine of womanly pride and she arches her back when he finally reaches for her. She has always known House needed her. Her understanding, her protection, her bland acceptance of his many flaws. It is thrilling to realize he wants her as well.

His palms skim the underside of her breasts and she whimpers at his slow exploration, amused and enchanted by the sight of his fingers tracing her contours so, so lightly.

"Breasts, House. You've seen them before?" She manages to croak and he leans forward to press his lips between them and she is lost back in the moment.

"Oh, girls. I've missed you." House murmurs against her chest, Cuddy's hand wrapping around the back of his neck as he pushes her backwards. They tumble together, bouncing amid the sheets and the tenderness flees again. She pulls at the snap of his pants, he amuses himself by watching her. He has known this Cuddy, once long ago, when they were much younger, unfettered. Now her hands, while exquisite, are a bit rougher and less enthralled. She is confident and what was once a bland, easy tumble now has all the richness of good bittersweet chocolate. Aged, matured. He likes this version of her better; witty and beautiful and - her hand has slid into his boxers and he fairly levitates into her grasp - bold.

As in all things they wrestle for control and dominance. Theirs is a complicated dance of give and take, give in and give up. They arch together and apart in what would seem to be disharmony, but the friction is perfect.

Union is a moment of stillness, blue eyes on blue, as they take in the weighty implications of this second. They are used to dealing with fall-out, complications. She's been cleaning up his messes for years, and now it's a beautiful disaster.

Slowly, with a tenderness reserved for darkened bedrooms and half-lived dreams, they find a rhythm that suits them both. He claws madly at the sheets before she guides his hands to her, urging him to touch her. He needs no second invitation, and before long what began as desperation has slipped into something older and deeper.

Love is not a word that they hear, see, or feel very often. It doesn't encapsulate the intricacies of what brought them to this point, he fearing insanity, she fearing...everything she feared from him every day of their lives together. This act was not a promise, nor was it a precipice. It wasn't the final outcome of a long journey, but merely a turning point.

He shudders, she collapses. His fingers trace her spine, her lips press to his chest. When she moves to slip away from him he holds her steady.

"The hospital will still be there in a few hours." He murmurs sleepily, and she knows it's true. Knows that they can't outrun reality that easily.

And so she stays, by his side as he sleeps, watching his brow furrow and relax.

She stays, as always.

(1/1)


End file.
